Vampire's Kiss 2/6? (Bennet/Claude, Teen)
Title: Vampire’s Kiss 2/6?
Author: nina_ds@ninamusing
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Bennet/Claude, traces of Bennet/Sandra, Claude/Peter, Claude/various OCs, even a wee hint of possible-maybe Sandra/Claude; also Claire and, as requested, Mr. Muggles in a cameo
Rating: Teen
Challenge: written for brave_new_slash’s Morally Grey November, to prompts by hearsawho: “I'd love something set in the present, though it's not necessary. Mention or involvement of Claire is always a plus. Aaaand Mr. Muggles. Naturally.” This is set in the present, but also in the past(s).
Author’s notes: Thanks again to schnaucl for the beta; I kind of split the difference on commas!
Part One
***
“You fucking shot me. Again.”
The eyes boring into him turn from cold steel to hot flame in an instant. Bennet schools his features, determined not to betray a bit of discomfort in his expression, though he feels the unpleasant crawling in his guts as he leans back in the chair, closes the folder, and slides his fountain pen into the breast pocket of his suit coat.
“It was necessary,” he says calmly, setting the folder on the nightstand and folding his hands on his knee.
“Necessary?” The snort is weaker than he expected, and Bennet purses his lips against his concern as the big hand, pierced by an IV needle, trembles on its way up. Claude feels the small gauze bandage on the curve of his neck and shoulder. And he gives a short bark of laughter, even as he closes his eyes, hand falling against his chest. “Good shot!”
“It was just a tranquilizer.” Bennet stands up beside the bed, looking down at the pale, drawn face, safe now that the penetrating eyes have closed. “You did more damage trying to pull it out.”
“Yeah, same ol’ same ol’.” Claude arches slightly, obviously testing his limbs and finding them unreliable. His voice weakens further. “How long…”
“You’ll be out for a while.” Bennet leans a hip against the side of the bed, carefully taking the hand on Claude’s chest in both of his, laying it back by his side and checking the IV connections. “I misjudged your weight.” He watches the narrow chest rise and fall with shallow steadiness. “You’ve gotten skinny again.”
***
Fifteen years before…
Skinny, smart-ass kid.
Bennet tossed his keys onto the table in the entry hall with unnecessary vehemence and loosened his tie as he strode directly to the bar to pour himself a drink.
“Is everything all right?” asked Sandra, looking up with concern as she brushed the tawny coat of her yappy little dog. Shortcake. Or Sweetcakes. He could never remember.
“Fine,” he said, letting the bourbon hit his bloodstream before turning.
“I can see that.” There was nothing at all in her tone that suggested sarcasm, and still, he slammed down the glass on the bar.
“I get enough of that from him, I do not need it at home,” he said shortly, and strode down the hallway to the master bedroom, stripping off his jacket.
He wasn’t entirely sure why Claude (certainly not his name, but the lanky Brit seemed to revel in it far too much) got on his nerves the way he did, but five months into this partnership, and he found his thoughts turning frequently to reassignment. He was well on his way to an ulcer, and for that he blamed his partner.
Rains enjoyed calling Bennet “rookie” just as much as he enjoyed his own pseudonym. In fact, Rains seemed to enjoy practically everything that made Bennet uncomfortable.
It was bad enough the kid was his superior. So, he was only five or six years younger than Bennet, but there was something both puppyish and rebellious about him that made him seem like a kid, an impression reinforced by the loose, long-limbed stride and the thin frame that practically vibrated with energy. He was forever running, to and from work, in the morning on road trips, late at night if he could. He was relentlessly restless in the office, hopeless at paperwork, and constantly trying to engage Bennet in conversation - or worse, banter.
Then again, in the field, he was efficient, sleek, all business, practiced and professional far beyond his years. His special powers were often unnecessary, and Bennet would use the term “lethal” if he hadn't been such a stickler for correct word usage, as never once had there even been so much as serious injury in their operations. In action, he was … elegant. No wasted motion. Bennet knew he could learn a great deal just from observing him. Because there was no way in hell he was going to ask.
Bennet stepped under the steamy blast of water in the shower, hoping it would dispel his mood, but it only seemed to intensify it. Because that was another thing.
Primatech was cheap enough to make them share a motel room when they were on a trip. At least it was a double. Claude, however, seemed determined to make any room uncomfortably small by filling it up with that infuriating energy, and his utter lack of concern about things like sleeping in pajamas or taking his clothes into the bathroom with him. Bennet studiously ignored him, which seemed to amuse Claude even further, though that was one area in which he seemed content not to push or tease, for which Bennet heartfully thanked whatever power might control the impudent kid.
He was already in bed, reading over the next day’s files when Claude walked out of the shower, finger-combing his water-darkened hair.
“Does invisibility sap your modesty?” he asked irritably as he flipped a page, his shoulder toward Claude.
“Nah, mate,” came the response as Claude pulled back the bedspread on his bed. “But six years as an artist’s model will. Even if it’s for one of the Company’s medical illustrators.”
The edge in his voice raised the little hairs on the back of Bennet’s neck, and he turned over to face the challenge in the eyes, dark blue in the low light. Claude leaned on one knee on the edge of the bed, ready to slip in, but he turned his wrists outward as his arms hung loosely at his sides, inviting - no, challenging - Bennet to do what he had steadfastly avoided before.
It was as if the little hairs on the back of his neck spread their signal across his skin, tracing the gaze over Claude’s body on his own.
***
“Daddy - Mr. Muggles, you come back here!”
The knock at the door has him on his feet like a shot, and he feels foolish even as his arms instinctively spread, as if to shield the hospital bed in their basement from his daughter’s shocked eyes.
Mr. Muggles darts around his ankles, ignoring Claire’s admonition, and Claire is no longer thinking about the dog as she draws closer to the bed.
“What are you doing?” Her confusion is replaced by suspicion and concern, and, resigned, he lets her push him away so that she can see who is lying there.
Claire’s fingers curl around the raised railing of the hospital bed. Mr. Muggles takes a lap underneath the bed, then comes up to rest his paws on the lower rail, head tilted, a tiny echo of Claire’s curiosity, if not her concern. She peers closely at the unconscious man, studying the bandage on his neck before an unsteady fingertip traces a raised vein along the pale forearm to the IV on the back of the hand.
The patient stirs, a soft moan parting his lips, and the sandy eyelashes tremble. Just a sliver of blue-grey shows, the eyes dilated almost black as they struggle to focus.
“Claude!” she gasps, and curls her fingers around his, shooting a look of disbelief and betrayal at her father as he leans against the railing beside her. “You told us he was dead!”
“Not for lack o’trying,” rasps Claude, and Claire’s attention swerves back to the man in the bed.
“It is you!” she cries softly, tears in her eyes as she squeezes his hand.
“Claire.” His voice is warm, and the sharp features soften as she leans over him.
“Yeah, it’s me.” She laughs and sniffs at the same time, choking a little as she wipes tears from her cheeks. “Just a little bit older.”
“Yeah.” He smiles weakly, eyes brightening as he returns the pressure of her fingers. “Me, too.”
Author: nina_ds@ninamusing
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Bennet/Claude, traces of Bennet/Sandra, Claude/Peter, Claude/various OCs, even a wee hint of possible-maybe Sandra/Claude; also Claire and, as requested, Mr. Muggles in a cameo
Rating: Teen
Challenge: written for brave_new_slash’s Morally Grey November, to prompts by hearsawho: “I'd love something set in the present, though it's not necessary. Mention or involvement of Claire is always a plus. Aaaand Mr. Muggles. Naturally.” This is set in the present, but also in the past(s).
Author’s notes: Thanks again to schnaucl for the beta; I kind of split the difference on commas!
Part One
***
“You fucking shot me. Again.”
The eyes boring into him turn from cold steel to hot flame in an instant. Bennet schools his features, determined not to betray a bit of discomfort in his expression, though he feels the unpleasant crawling in his guts as he leans back in the chair, closes the folder, and slides his fountain pen into the breast pocket of his suit coat.
“It was necessary,” he says calmly, setting the folder on the nightstand and folding his hands on his knee.
“Necessary?” The snort is weaker than he expected, and Bennet purses his lips against his concern as the big hand, pierced by an IV needle, trembles on its way up. Claude feels the small gauze bandage on the curve of his neck and shoulder. And he gives a short bark of laughter, even as he closes his eyes, hand falling against his chest. “Good shot!”
“It was just a tranquilizer.” Bennet stands up beside the bed, looking down at the pale, drawn face, safe now that the penetrating eyes have closed. “You did more damage trying to pull it out.”
“Yeah, same ol’ same ol’.” Claude arches slightly, obviously testing his limbs and finding them unreliable. His voice weakens further. “How long…”
“You’ll be out for a while.” Bennet leans a hip against the side of the bed, carefully taking the hand on Claude’s chest in both of his, laying it back by his side and checking the IV connections. “I misjudged your weight.” He watches the narrow chest rise and fall with shallow steadiness. “You’ve gotten skinny again.”
***
Fifteen years before…
Skinny, smart-ass kid.
Bennet tossed his keys onto the table in the entry hall with unnecessary vehemence and loosened his tie as he strode directly to the bar to pour himself a drink.
“Is everything all right?” asked Sandra, looking up with concern as she brushed the tawny coat of her yappy little dog. Shortcake. Or Sweetcakes. He could never remember.
“Fine,” he said, letting the bourbon hit his bloodstream before turning.
“I can see that.” There was nothing at all in her tone that suggested sarcasm, and still, he slammed down the glass on the bar.
“I get enough of that from him, I do not need it at home,” he said shortly, and strode down the hallway to the master bedroom, stripping off his jacket.
He wasn’t entirely sure why Claude (certainly not his name, but the lanky Brit seemed to revel in it far too much) got on his nerves the way he did, but five months into this partnership, and he found his thoughts turning frequently to reassignment. He was well on his way to an ulcer, and for that he blamed his partner.
Rains enjoyed calling Bennet “rookie” just as much as he enjoyed his own pseudonym. In fact, Rains seemed to enjoy practically everything that made Bennet uncomfortable.
It was bad enough the kid was his superior. So, he was only five or six years younger than Bennet, but there was something both puppyish and rebellious about him that made him seem like a kid, an impression reinforced by the loose, long-limbed stride and the thin frame that practically vibrated with energy. He was forever running, to and from work, in the morning on road trips, late at night if he could. He was relentlessly restless in the office, hopeless at paperwork, and constantly trying to engage Bennet in conversation - or worse, banter.
Then again, in the field, he was efficient, sleek, all business, practiced and professional far beyond his years. His special powers were often unnecessary, and Bennet would use the term “lethal” if he hadn't been such a stickler for correct word usage, as never once had there even been so much as serious injury in their operations. In action, he was … elegant. No wasted motion. Bennet knew he could learn a great deal just from observing him. Because there was no way in hell he was going to ask.
Bennet stepped under the steamy blast of water in the shower, hoping it would dispel his mood, but it only seemed to intensify it. Because that was another thing.
Primatech was cheap enough to make them share a motel room when they were on a trip. At least it was a double. Claude, however, seemed determined to make any room uncomfortably small by filling it up with that infuriating energy, and his utter lack of concern about things like sleeping in pajamas or taking his clothes into the bathroom with him. Bennet studiously ignored him, which seemed to amuse Claude even further, though that was one area in which he seemed content not to push or tease, for which Bennet heartfully thanked whatever power might control the impudent kid.
He was already in bed, reading over the next day’s files when Claude walked out of the shower, finger-combing his water-darkened hair.
“Does invisibility sap your modesty?” he asked irritably as he flipped a page, his shoulder toward Claude.
“Nah, mate,” came the response as Claude pulled back the bedspread on his bed. “But six years as an artist’s model will. Even if it’s for one of the Company’s medical illustrators.”
The edge in his voice raised the little hairs on the back of Bennet’s neck, and he turned over to face the challenge in the eyes, dark blue in the low light. Claude leaned on one knee on the edge of the bed, ready to slip in, but he turned his wrists outward as his arms hung loosely at his sides, inviting - no, challenging - Bennet to do what he had steadfastly avoided before.
It was as if the little hairs on the back of his neck spread their signal across his skin, tracing the gaze over Claude’s body on his own.
***
“Daddy - Mr. Muggles, you come back here!”
The knock at the door has him on his feet like a shot, and he feels foolish even as his arms instinctively spread, as if to shield the hospital bed in their basement from his daughter’s shocked eyes.
Mr. Muggles darts around his ankles, ignoring Claire’s admonition, and Claire is no longer thinking about the dog as she draws closer to the bed.
“What are you doing?” Her confusion is replaced by suspicion and concern, and, resigned, he lets her push him away so that she can see who is lying there.
Claire’s fingers curl around the raised railing of the hospital bed. Mr. Muggles takes a lap underneath the bed, then comes up to rest his paws on the lower rail, head tilted, a tiny echo of Claire’s curiosity, if not her concern. She peers closely at the unconscious man, studying the bandage on his neck before an unsteady fingertip traces a raised vein along the pale forearm to the IV on the back of the hand.
The patient stirs, a soft moan parting his lips, and the sandy eyelashes tremble. Just a sliver of blue-grey shows, the eyes dilated almost black as they struggle to focus.
“Claude!” she gasps, and curls her fingers around his, shooting a look of disbelief and betrayal at her father as he leans against the railing beside her. “You told us he was dead!”
“Not for lack o’trying,” rasps Claude, and Claire’s attention swerves back to the man in the bed.
“It is you!” she cries softly, tears in her eyes as she squeezes his hand.
“Claire.” His voice is warm, and the sharp features soften as she leans over him.
“Yeah, it’s me.” She laughs and sniffs at the same time, choking a little as she wipes tears from her cheeks. “Just a little bit older.”
“Yeah.” He smiles weakly, eyes brightening as he returns the pressure of her fingers. “Me, too.”